


Breathing Room

by cat_77



Series: Respiration [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen, Pregnancy issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 02:16:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cat_77/pseuds/cat_77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chance to rest and plan for the inevitable.  [The team learns of the pregnancy and the possible ramifications.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathing Room

It was Stark's idea. Of course it was. The man had a stellar PR department because he chose people who thought like him, whose ideas would ebb and flow and dazzle just like his. He knew how to work the public media, knew how to work the private investors and probably how to manipulate entire world governments for all Clint knew, but the important thing was that he was damn good at it and usually ended up getting exactly what he wanted. Given that he wanted the safety and protection of a teammate and friend this time around, Clint was all for him using every weapon in his arsenal to get there.

Natasha, of course, was less than pleased with the idea. She obviously saw its worth, but she also saw its cost. Given that she was a private person by nature, and that they had literally just managed to worm theirselves back into her life after five months of self-chosen and self-enforced solitude, it spoke a lot as to how she saw them, how she trusted them, that she even had been willing to listen to a plan like this let alone give in with only some minor alterations to the original proposal.

Which is how Clint Barton stood beside Natasha Romanov and watched Tony Stark, cameras flashing and media circus abounding and not a single paparazzi with a camera getting anything more than silhouettes of anyone but Stark as they stood behind the protective glass of the entryway, a pseudo-honor guard of the rest of the team at their sides. Behind Tony, projected larger than life, was a single scene from the battle playing over and over again: Natasha turning, red hair obscuring her face, parka open and swinging in an arc around her, torn and dripping with the same blood that had spattered across the soft blue of a sweater that was pulled tightly across the gentle round of her stomach. Steve had been at her side then, shield raised above both their heads as he tried to get her out of there and she tried to take down yet another false agent, Clint running up in the background, bow in hand.

"They attacked our home," Tony seethed, his voice carrying through the crisp air. There was no way he was letting the hordes of reporters into the Tower, media room or no, not so soon after an attack involving far too many people pretending to be something they weren't. So the masses stood outside, the gleaming glass as a backdrop, the shell casings and flecks of stone from the ricochets still littering the ground, and listened to his anger sweep and soar as he went on and on and continued, "They shot at us, at teammates and friends, attacked us where we live. Not some grand monster or evil aliens, but agents of an unknown organization, humans just like us."

"Is it true that the agent known as 'The Black Widow' is pregnant?" one of the reporters interrupted, likely taking his life in his own hands. JARVIS would have his name and personal information available before Tony even stepped back inside.

Stark, for his part, just leveled a glare that spoke volumes. "I am not at liberty to discuss any personal or potential medical concerns a teammate may or may not have at this time," he replied smoothly, as if the evidence was not projected in living color on the screen behind him, as if he had not personally chose that image for this exact reason.

He went on for both an eternity and a matter of mere minutes, stressing how the team would understandably be closing ranks for the time being. The Tower would be in near lockdown mode, at least the upper levels, as they sought to protect their own in this time of distress. It was an effective speech, Clint had to give him credit. No agency, SHIELD or otherwise, could make a move without looking pretty damn shitty at this point. Motives would be questioned and public opinion would be turned and it would be a nightmare, both media and otherwise, for any organization to recover from.

In other words, it was exactly what Tony was going for. 

Natasha fumed, hated being used as the damsel in distress even as she knew it was only a manipulation, a tool to be used to complete the mission successfully, a mission that she was probably just now realizing was going to last years as it involved not just a resolution of the immediate situation, but assurance of the health and safety of another living being for a lifetime. A being that was currently growing inside her.

Clint could tell the moment that particular thought hit, the way her shoulder leaned ever so slightly against the metal frame around the glass and the way her hand came up to rub against her belly, leaving a fresh smear of darkness in its wake.

She had lost the parka but kept the sweater and had yet to let anyone treat her save for the cloth Rogers had pressed against the largest wound across her bicep at the scene. Banner approached now, hands wide and open and clearly unthreatening, and suggested, as it was nothing more than an offer, "Let me take a look at that for you."

She paused and stiffened slightly, and he watched the way her eyes darted to the blue and then to the red that was quickly staining to become a dark maroon. She raised a hand to swipe at her face, almost but not quite reopening the small cut there, and seemed to finally notice all the smaller cuts that decorated her arms, tore her once fine sweater to shreds. "Yeah," she relented and stepped towards him. If he saw the slight stutter to that step, he was wise enough not to say a word about it. Clint, for his part, just watched and waited and readied himself to catch her if needed. It was only fair for the sheer number of times she had done the same for him.

The sweater was toast but, thankfully, Natasha was mostly whole underneath. Bruce treated her right there in the lobby, sanitizing and bandaging the smaller wounds, tsking over the larger one that might need stitches if it didn't seal on its own soon. He then pulled out a stethoscope and asked, "May I?" At her curious look, he explained, "A sonogram would be better, but this should do for now. Your child... he, um, she..."

"She," she answered the not quite voiced question. 

Bruce's lips curled for a fraction of a second, either pleased to be granted that much of an allowance into her personal life, or mentally picturing pink bows and ponies and how much the woman before him would despise both. "She has been through a lot, as have you," he finished his earlier thought. "This isn't a perfect solution, but should be able to at least help us determine if there's any greater danger we will need to look out for."

"Medical has a sonogram," she told him, pushing herself up from the chair she had nearly collapsed in. It wasn't an actual medical unit, not quite, but it was well stocked and kept them out of SHIELD's Infirmary more often than not, so it served its purpose. "I'm not sure what Stark used it for, nor do I want to know, but if you can make sure it won't actually send a repulsor blast through my stomach from him 'tweaking' it, you can use that."

Bruce blinked, obviously not having expected that answer. Clint didn't blame him. It was a hell of a lot more than just an allowance at this point, and spoke to Nat's worry even if she hid it behind her usual facade. "Meet you up there in fifteen?" he asked, smooth as ever, as though he hadn't realized the depth of trust she had just revealed, and received a nod in confirmation.

Bruce gathered his gear and headed for the elevator, but Natasha lingered for a moment. "This changes things, doesn't it?" she asked as she stepped beside Clint.

"A hell of a lot of things," he agreed. He turned to face her, even as she stared resolutely out the giant windows, watching as Stark finished the impromptu conference and approached. "You going to tell them?" He didn't elaborate as to what.

She raised an eyebrow. "If I don't, Thor will search the earth for whoever besmirched my honor and Steve will think I have loose wiles." There was a pause, but no smile before she requested, "Let me wait until I know she's okay?"

He raised his hands as though in surrender. "Hey, I'm all for the besmirching and wiling," he insisted and there, just there, was the slightest hint of a grin, accented by an eye roll.

She stepped towards the elevator and called over her shoulder, "You say that now, but we both know they think she's yours." She even had the audacity to smirk as the doors closed around her, and he fought the urge to actively curse.

Sure enough, after a quick verification that JARVIS would keep tabs on her safety and status, his remaining teammates descended. His next few minutes were filled with denials and assurances and much usage of the phrases, "No, I don't need to make an honest woman out of her," and, "No, there is no one to take down for this," and, "You really think she wouldn't do it herself?" and, "She will tell you on her own terms, not mine."

Eventually, the others backed off, and he busied himself and them by gathering her belongings from where they had been stacked in a corner and bringing them up to her rooms. He placed the ridiculous little plant he had rescued from her apartment - crumpled yet still mostly whole - front and center, but left the rest alone for her to do with as she would. He returned down to the main residential floor that held the shared kitchen and rec room amongst other things, as food was most definitely a must at this point.

He sniffed the air suspiciously though, smelling not spices or sweets, but the faint scent of ozone and maybe scorched cloth. He reached for the gun in the holster at his side, but found there was no actual need and quickly returned it, the action made that much more difficult by his attempt not to laugh at the sight before him. There was Phil Coulson, former handler and current friend, neatly handcuffed to one of Stark's prototype robots, hands folded in his lap as he sat primly in a chair.

"Banner told it to send an electric charge should I attempt to escape," Phil explained, a few stray hairs still standing on end. "Apparently it takes it's duties very seriously and will continue to complete them until such time it is formally released from them."

"Good to know," Clint said, taking the seat next to him, and taking note of Bruce's vindictive side. He reached for the cuffs, and was met with a raised robotic arm, the blue arc of a charge at the end.

"Said release must come from Banner himself, though it is possible Stark could override it should he feel so inclined," Phil said in the same cool, calm manner.

Clint wiped a hand over his mouth to hide a smile, then cleared his throat and said, "No idea where Tony is, but Bruce is with Nat, checking her out."

"Checking them," Coulson corrected, and Clint should have known better than to think he hadn't been watching the whole damn debacle. There was a brief hesitation, a rarity from the man before him, and then he asked, "Is she...?"

It took Clint a moment to realize that Coulson was not being pre-cognizant about the child's sex and was actually asking about Nat. He covered with a shrug and said, "A few cuts, probably a few bruises. Those are from today. As for how she was doing before I found her? She was living and breathing and had created a complete, if boring, life for herself. She swears she's fine with the whole thing, I say she's faking, and she's actually in no state to fully kick my ass, so I win for now."

Coulson seemed to think about that. He eventually regarded Clint with a single raised eyebrow and offered, "Once this state is over, you do realize she will seek retribution, correct?"

He shrugged. That was months away and there was a very good chance he could distract her and/or find something or someone else to take the brunt of the attention by then.

"And the status of both the child and the child's father, assuming of course-" Coulson began, but was cut off with a shake of Clint's head.

"Nuh-uh, there is no way I'm going to be the one to explain that," Clint insisted, hands out in a defensive position as if ready for an imminent attack, which was likely if Nat was done with her exam. "She'll tell you if and when she tells the others - do not put that on me."

Coulson's eyebrow quirked up slightly, but that was his only tell as to his surprise in the matter. "So I can assume you are not the father?" he asked, with just enough lilt at the end for Clint to realize he had actually considered that possibility.

It was not his place to say, he knew this, he respected this. He also knew Nat would allow him one and only one moment of commentary, as the math behind it would be evident to all soon enough, even if she decided not to tell the others. "Five months, sir," was all he said. He watched as the color drained from his former handler's features, let him cycle though the same possibilities he himself had barely a week ago, let him be just as thankful that the entire place had mysteriously burned to the ground as they left, teammate safely in hand. He tilted his head once in acknowledgement of his words, and then stood to walk away, leaving Coulson and his electronic bodyguard as they were while he sought out the others to work out a possible dinner option.

"Barton?" Phil asked. Then, when he did not respond, "Clint?" It was beseeching and sad and more than a little panicked.

"Don't put this on me," Clint repeated, and left.

* * *

It was Steve that ended up arranging dinner for them all. It was likely on Tony's account, but Steve himself made the call and did the ordering and, given the state of Natasha's slightly different than usual selections, had probably verified with her just what she was up to consuming that night. He ended the call and looked to a recently freed Coulson and offered, "I ordered enough for you too, sir, if you wish to stay." 

Coulson did not smirk, but it appeared to be a near thing and possibly related to the fact that some small part of him still fanboyed Captain America just a little too much. As if he would leave before getting as much of the full story as Natasha was willing to share with the others. As if he wouldn't hack in if bodily removed. Instead, he offered a glib, "Well, I understand Miss Romanov is eating for two, but as that 'two' is not yet an adolescent with appropriate appetites, I assumed you might have."

Steve smiled in an almost embarrassed way, and Clint refrained from mentioning Nat's latest eating habits because, despite what others claimed, he did not actually have a death wish. If she wanted a second burger after barely managing to keep down breakfast, he would be the first in line to buy one for her. The cream cheese jalapeño spread she wanted on the last one was odd, at least for her, but he had seen far worse in his day and the person who ordered it did not have the cliched excuse of pregnancy cravings to fall back on.

Natasha did not come back down until the food actually arrived, and it took all of his willpower not to go up and check on her before then. She needed to calm and center herself and prepare herself to be around others and he understood that, even if they had been in each other's pockets for days. She was still the partner he had worked with for years and it shouldn't come as a surprise that she wanted alone time after everything that had happened and everything that was about to.

She came down with her face freshly scrubbed even if there was what looked to be dust from demolished bricks powdering white against the red tones of her hair. She had changed out of her sweater and into something a little less covered in blood and torn to shreds. She looked almost maternal in the soft gray cardigan over a muted green t-shirt and jeans, and he had a brief flash of the future mother she would be if given the chance.

"Do you want to eat first, or risk destroying your appetites?" she asked dryly as she filled her plate.

"Tell us your tale while we feast to your return and survival," Thor replied. He took a large bite from his own plate, and followed it with, "No matter what has passed, you are healthy and whole and this shall always be cause for celebration."

No one really had an objection to that, but Clint was willing to bet the combination of their own hunger for both food and information played more of a role than a lack of want to countermand Thor's directive. He knew what to expect, and also knew the quiet support Natasha would need even if she didn't admit it to herself, and so he took his share of food and pointedly sat next to her, shoulders almost brushing but not quite.

The others gathered around and listened intently as she gave a timeline of everything that had happened, leaving surprisingly little out. He watched a combination of flinches, fury, and carefully blank masks as she described being taken, being experimented upon, and being impregnated with her own clone against her will. He watched the simmer and seething as she explained that there would be those who would want to get their hands on the child and use her for their own means. He watched the resigned understanding when she told them she had not wanted to put them at risk or force a choice upon them and chose to drop off the radar and create a new life for herself instead. 

Perhaps understanding was not quite the right word though, as Tony - it was always Tony - interrupted and said, "Okay, so, first? Not a choice, not for us. I think I speak for all of us, even Agent over there, when I say we would have and are always going to side with you over evil organizations that want to kidnap and experiment on others. It's a thing, really. A big thing." 

Steve and Bruce nodded and Thor made the face he did when he thought someone was saying ridiculous and obvious, which was pretty much the same thing. Coulson crossed his arms in front of him and stated, "Your health and well-being comes first. Please do not ever question this."

Stark's eyebrows quirked quick and fleeting and he tilted his head to the side in a sort if shrug as if they had just proved his point. It was immediately followed by, "But I do have to ask, why keep the kid if you knew she was going to be a target?"

Steve opened his mouth as if to object to Tony's bluntness and insensitivity, but Natasha herself beat him to any response with one of her own. "I was told I would never have children," she said simply. Clint thought that would be the end of it but, after a pause, she hesitantly added, as if deciding they had the right to know more than a quick cover story, "The Red Room... I have never been able to carry a child to term; that this one has made it this far is remarkable. I... I wanted this chance. I wanted this gift, despite its origins, even though I knew it could end in disappointment."

An odd sort of silence fell over the room as each person took in both her words and the consequences. It was, of course, broken when Tony clapped his hands, leaned back in his chair and then shrugged, "Good enough for me. Now, how the hell do we protect this little bugger?"

The conversation turned to just that. Private tutors were mentioned, as were genetically tagged proximity sensors around the crib and possibly her suite as a whole. Phil promised to review any and all agreements with SHIELD himself, though no one was surprised when Tony insisted that his own battalion of lawyers have a go at it as well. Steve promised to bodily protect the child as well as got a bit of a misty look to his eyes when asking if she had anything planned design-wise for a nursery save for defenses. Thor threatened the might of the Aesir should anyone try to make a move against his shield-sister's child and then offered his services as babysitter in a solemn and frightening way.

"And you?" Natasha asked as she leaned ever so slightly against him, close enough that he could count the flecks of plaster that still decorated her hair. The others were cleaning now, or at least using picking up the detritus to cover any conversations about extra security protocols and missions they foolishly thought they could keep from her for the time being.

"I told you," he said, resting a cheek against her shoulder. "I will be right there beside you, holding your hair back as you puke." She elbowed him in the ribs at that. Hard. "Or, you know, your hand the few times you don't feel the need to decorate my shoes."

The elbow turned softer, almost a nudge for anyone else. Almost. "Thank you," she whispered.

He tugged a blanket down around them both and handed her the remote, settling in for what would probably be a long and restless night. Too much change and too much danger still fresh in both their minds - something that could only be remedied with mindless television and possibly some of those brownies it sounded like Bruce had started to make in the kitchen. When she was distracted by fake accents and faker tans, he muttered softly, "Anything, anytime." 

The squeeze of her fingertips around his own told him that she heard him anyway.


End file.
